Mark seems to have gotten a case of food poisoning. We went to a place called Villa-O, kind of organic Italian. It was a little noisy, but we liked it. We ate different entrees – I had scallops with a fennel crust served on top of basil vinaigrette with arugula & tomatoes & a few fried potatoes, Mark had the Waygu beef Bolognaise on top of their homemade penne. We shared pizza bread and I had a few bites of Mark’s wedge salad with bacon and creamy Gorgonzola dressing, and we both ate focaccia with herbed oil from a bottle on the table. I tasted Mark’s pasta and he ate a little of my scallops. We cabbed back to the hotel – our driver, who was listening to coverage of the South Carolina Republican primary on NPR, thought Newt Gingrich is going to be the next president – he saw it in a dream. We watched TV for a bit, the remote crapped out, and Mark starting throwing up at about 9:00 p.m. That’s actually how I knew he was sick – Mark’s not, as are virtually all males – not likely to be stumped by a remote. One minute he was standing there with the remote in his hand looking baffled, the next, lunging for the bathroom, and stomach-emptying sounds ensued. I’m not sick. I suspect the oil, or the meat sauce. Or the salad – but not the Gorgonzola cheese, despite the fact that Mayo Clinic told Mark it was the culprit.
